Amongst These Ashes
by willgrahams
Summary: Will seeks solace in his one most dependable destination—the institute's library—but is marred by the fact that Tessa shares his views. [Wessa - after CA and before CP / one shot]


The fire crackled, sending the illuminating orange glow out on the environment, licking over the edges of the grate. it brought into view the stacks and stacks of shelves, clustered with the books that made up a library and stuck the feeling it gave to those who seeked doorways, portals, other realms where they could forget themselves and, for a short period of time—much too short—be someone else. To live with images set upon the words that formed the world in your head, shaped it intricately. Only if you tried hard enough.

Will Herondale was certainly one of these people. As he walked into the room, the familiar aura enveloped him, and his eyelids flickered shut for just a moment longer than most. These were the stolen moments where he could run, hide away all doubts, everything that haunted his very soul, brought upon the layered nightmares which induced the sweat and inability to have a normal night of proper sleep. His dreams stayed lined with the morbid wishes, terror-inducing scenarios that laid waste to whatever way he could rest off the aches.

Yet, the library had always been where this could disappear.

The plentiful shelves seemed to beckon to him, and he let them, drawn and hopelessly dependant towards them. His eyes scanned the titles as the warmth of the fire washed over, inducing the heavy aura that helped in drawing the reader's minds from the fickle boundaries of reality. His hands grazed the backs of the books, old and laden with the invitation of burning curiosity to turn each page. Finally, his slim fingers settled on the very much worn out cover of the book that had always taken up his fancy, in all times.

A Tale Of Two Cities, it read, inducing the sharp edge of hysteria that always came upon him while reading. Reading was his dopamine, and had always been. It straightened out the tension ridden muscles he possessed, kept out the pounding in his head. It was books he could always rely on where others were very much lacking.

Except now.

As he turned the first page and the lines stared out at him—'It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness …'—he found they stopped making sense, and lay unregistered in his mind; a warehouse of nothing. As much as he tried, he stopped. He couldn't, and for the life of him, he had no idea how. All he received were the broken filters and reminders of what overpowered his senses each and every day, hour, minute. Seeming like a harmony, but never to be gotten used to, and never any less painful.

Again, the steady stream started, and went on as if it would never end. He was reminded of glimpses which seemed to open up fresh stab wounds, glimpses at what he could and couldn't. They cut through, glowing as if carved on his closed eyelids, unable to disappear.

With extreme force, he yanked them out of his head, face working furiously. No. He could not. Would not. For him, it was unspoken. He would never be able to, because the limits to it's selfishness would be eternally unforgivable. It would destroy her.

He would rather end himself then her, hurt himself than her, yet it hurt them both; there she was, her long, dark and cascading hair seeming to swing at her every step, the curve of her eyes heightening as her lip pulled into a smile. It was all he craved, all he wanted, all he couldn't not have; him being the reason for that smile without inducing the regret that threatened to collapse everything he was.

His mind seemed to strike out like the tornado it was yet again, consuming every thought process and blocking all concious thought except her, her, her. She was what he dreamed of, what he was afraid for and afraid of.

No, no, no. His eyes darted wildly as he tried ridding his mind off everything that seemed to consume him, lay waste to what he was. And as they fixed upon the book that lay in front of him, the inducer of the orchestra, all the hysteria he focused on it, on the dark night she had first asked him about it and of it's worth. Then, he had not known how to answer. But now.

As if he had lost all personal will, his hand grabbed at the book ferociously, the chair almost tipping back in the haste he pushed it. Turning to face the flaming abiss, it seemed to set his mind alight. It ate away at all conscious thought, leading to the loss of awareness at his actions. He had aimed it at the direct centre and midst, where the heat would consume each and every page in the firey fury, making it one with the flames. Ironic was the predicament; he was the fire, burning, spitting, consuming anyone who threatened to get closer. And then there was her, burning in the heart of it all.

What came upon next should have been expected.

"Will?" The voice resounded through, ringing sharply like a bell through his whole system. In his utter surprise, the book dropped out of his previously painfully tight grip and head whipped around so fast it seemed as if it would snap. The familiarity, the timidness, it all came upon him and even though he knew who would be there, it did nothing to prepare him.

And there she stood, each and every detail thrown into focus by the orange glow, clad in only a nightgown, over which she wore dressing robes which aided in only reflecting off her frailness; the innocent, soft features which revealed none of the hidden version of herself she held, which could crush you to bits with only one look. And that was what he loved so much about her.

Yet, he couldn't stop the words flying from his mouth. "What are you doing here?" They were sharp, clear and obviously gave off both the right and wrong impression. He could see her almost take a step back, the hurt evident before grounding herself once again.

"I—I couldn't sleep," she started, then cleared her throat. "And I haven't received any notice that the liberty of the library solely belonged to you."

Any other day, any other time where he had not just been this very vulnerable and he would have been able to reply to that with the same clip, yet his mind brought up a blank now, except for the fact that a stray hair had fallen on her face—not marring or blocking the perfection yet adding on to the effortless beauty—and that he felt an aching desire to walk closer to her and brush it back. He barely held it.

A moment passed where he bounced as if between sleep and wake, eyes still fixed upon her, brow furrowed ever so slightly, and forgot to look away, which she did, eyes falling upon the book—cover on top—lying on the floor next to him.

"Charles Dickens," she pointed out, looking up at him again.

"A Tale Of Two Cities," he said quietly, voice rasping just at the edges.

"I wouldn't have thought Dickens would be a preference of yours." She had taken a tentative step, tensing him—though she didn't seem to notice. Each step she took forward drove each and every thought in his head go delirious, until she was close, ever so close, closer than she had ever been, so much so that if he lifted his hand he could almost touch her—

Then she was right in front of him, and he had gone absolutely still, as if this was another one of his dreams that woke him up feeling so lost and deprived. She was bending and he could see where she had pushed her hair in front, revealing the smooth, pale neck that showed one single silver chain.

As she straightened, it seemed as if she had gotten closer, taking up all the space in front of him and making him feel enclosed from all sides, and he could feel the heat from her breath as she looked up at him, and there was nothing he could think of except the fact that her face was naught but six centimetres away from his own.

"Here." Her whisper filled him, floating through, ever so soft yet resounding, shedding each wall he had built against everybody because of one stupid mistake that had owed him his entire life. Yet there was nothing, could never be nothing and would never be anything but her, standing there, features in almost drug-induced vibrant focus that made him blink.

And there she raised the book so slightly, without even taking her eyes off his deep, deep blue ones as if willing to sink in them. He could not have taken the book even if his hands were not shaking so hard he was afraid they would never stop. Each sense was directed towards her, how her closeness affected each and every muscle in his body, and the vanilla scent that hung around her, and seemed to act as the intoxicant he needed.

It seemed as if the distant between them had all but disappeared; her face was ever so close, edging closer until she was all he could see, and he could count each and every eyelash that magnified the darkness of her eyes that seemed to reflect the light from the fire.

"Name of the Angel, Tessa," was all he said before his lips were upon hers, soft and feverishly warm, sending a fire coursing down him that lit up something new. His arm went around her without him even hesitating, one hand cupping her face to hold her closer. He was aware of her palms resting on his chest, tightening their hold on the shirt he wore, aware of the way her lips fit on the curve of his, so perfectly that he pulled her closer, because it was never enough. Each kiss rapidly ensued, every time they pulled away being oh so cold, that he felt her gasp underneath him. They got heavier, staggering and lingering, until they were both out of breath, chests heaving together.

The force now seemed to push them back, into the shelf of books that stood behind. Her hands splayed out, rocking the shelf slightly as the heaviness of the books held it down. There, each kiss heightened, her sweet taste driving him to forget all else, all except her. He left her lips, guiding his down across her jaw-line, to her neck. She tilted her head back, letting escape a low moan and leading his lips back up to hers, as if there was a thirst that could never be quenched, not after anything.

And it went on, and would have gone on if she hadn't at the moment swung her arms to steady herself, knocking down a pile of heavy books in the process.

They broke apart, breathing heavily, each not knowing what in the name of God had just occurred, not so much as Will, who seemed dumbstruck, and after attempting to to say something but finding his entire throat choked, he did the first and only thing he could think of, and the only thing he knew.

He turned and ran.


End file.
